‘Tis the season of giving, and thank f*cking God or whichever celestial being you believe in for it - because it’s been a rough year for us all. Hopefully, with any luck, we might be able to have 30 days to be thankful and grateful for each other and Holiday ham, distracting from the 24-hour news cycle, political upheaval, and civil unrest we have endured - ALL..YEAR…LONG.

Unlike the babyproof-ed house you grew up in, the world does not have a metaphorical stair guard or cabinet latch to protect you from the things that threaten you. The best we have are self-regulation and the ‘Unfollow’ button, through which we manage our anxiety and avoidance of the things that scare the living daylights out of us. Among the list - our triggers.

If you love feeling good, literally lighting up all over with a body buzz - you’ll love meditation. If you love the idea of walking into any situation with a sense of confidence and perspective, you’ll love meditation. If you love the idea of having both these things without the use of drugs and alcohol (the worst drug of all), you’ll love the personal high you’ll get from meditation.

This chapter actually should have been titled So Professional. The italics would have indicated the sarcasm right off the bat, and you would have known that what you are about to read might be the most unprofessional chapter in this whole book. But there were no italics – which I guess, when you think about it, is a little unprofessional. But guess what? That’s exactly what I was going for, so gfy for thinking your sooooooo smart. You know what also? I know I just spelled “you’re” wrong in the previous sentence. I was just fucking with you because you’re probably the kind of jerk that like to call people out on that sort of thing in everyday conversation. JK, JK, JK, so am I. But this is my book, and I do what I want. If there’s a lesson to be learned from this paragraph, it’s to stop thinking you’re smarter than this book. Back to business. Actual business. The kind of business you go to for 30 – 40 years of your life in order to make money, and then die. You know that business? You in da Murda bizne$$.

I’ve rounded the number of concerns I have about parenthood down to a nice manageable, even number so that this post isn’t a ‘Game of Thrones’ size novel of neurosis. Suffice it to say, I’m a tad nervous about growing a human inside me at some point during the next decade of my life.

If my twenties had a sponsor, it would have been Doritos. If I had my branding game on point, I would have just asked them to sponsor my life for the next 10 years, softening the blow of my Quarter-Life Crisis (QLC) by providing a passive income as I attempted to start my life over from scratch with the added bonus of free Doritos. But nope - just a steady stream of panic, and an estimated $13,000 burned in a cloud of orange dust. All this to say that retrospectively, binge-eating bag after bag of God’s gift to sad, avoidant people (while absolutely delicious and at times more satisfying than some sexual encounters) is not a helpful long term strategy in making sh*t happen.